


Bringer of Light

by madrabbitgirl



Series: Bringer of Light Variations [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Good Omens Fusion, Angel/Demon Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Conductor of light, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Demon/Human Relationships, Gratuitous abuse of italics, John Watson Whump, John is Lucifer, John is the Morningstar, M/M, Pre-Slash, Reichenbach Feels, Sibling Rivalry, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:41:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madrabbitgirl/pseuds/madrabbitgirl
Summary: John, devastated by Sherlock's fall from the top of the hospital, turns to the only person that can help him haul the detective out of Hell - Anthony J. Crowley. But will Mephistopheles let his new prize soul go so easily? What about the secrets that John's been hiding? And whatever did happen to the archangel Raphael?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Bringer of Light Variations [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913281
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88





	Bringer of Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadMags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMags/gifts).



> * I'm adding this to a series of stand alone demon!John pieces that can all be read separately as they do not link up. I just like knowing all my demons are in the same room.
> 
> * This is not my usual fandom but it got stuck in my head like a broken record and wouldn't stop until I spit it out.
> 
> * Not brit-picked, unfortch.

If John had a heart, it would be racing. As it was, he could only stand in shocked awe at the sight of his dearest- perhaps his only- friend at the top of the hospital. Cigarette ash clouds were threatening ominous messages as drizzle that might as well have been holy water sprinkled down into his teary eyes. He could only stare. Stare at the dark curls whipping around that sweet, familiar face. The humans might have likened it to cherubs, but John knew the truth of the Cherubim and knew how wrong a comparison that really was. Sherlock’s eyes, clever as a human could be, were red with tears. 

_Don’t. In the name of all that is Unholy, Sherlock. Don’t._

_Can’t you see? You’re supposed to see everything! Can’t you see?_

Sherlock tossed the phone away in a cavalier motion. He spread his arms recklessly. His coat flaps around him, reminding John of the wings of the Fallen.

No wings, holy or otherwise, emerge to save him.

For the first time in his long lives, John is frozen in horror as Sherlock swan dives (poetic license, there is nothing so graceful about _this_ fall) onto the pavement. 

There had to be a plan. There was no way this beautiful genius could possibly really be dead. Sherlock had to be planning something magnificent.He’d always kept John on his toes with his impossible deductions and sharp wit. Sherlock was refreshing. He was a singular man (and John had met many supposedly singular men over the decades, of which none could ever compare to his _friend_ ). John stumbled through the crowd, calling out, his human-shaped appendages feeling numb. 

There was so much blood. Very real looking, very metallic smelling blood. 

The other humans were determined to hold him back. That had to be a part of the plan, right? They were paid to make him believe, maybe, that Sherlock was- that he’d somehow- But he couldn’t be. The genius had underestimated John, what John really was-

Then John saw the other one.

There, leaning against the cold brick wall of the building, John saw the calm, twisted, _hellish_ visage of the demon. _Mephistopheles, the scatterer._ The demon who lingered, like Death himself, picking off those who were already Damned. He did not seek, as a hunter. He merely harvested what was already ripe and ready. 

John stared at him. The huge demonic essence, dark and dripping sin, stuffed into the guise of a short, chubby woman with frizzy hair and bright eyes. The unassuming face radiated satisfaction that caused bile to rise in John’s raw throat, burning him. His human body was heavy and tired. When he blinked, it felt like it took a year for his eyes to open and close. In that time, Mephistopheles’ smirk only grew more smug. 

“No,” John’s lips formed the silent word. 

Mephistopheles grinned and then winked. 

And then was gone.

“He was my friend,” John croaked.

***

John went through the motions for _their_ sake. The other humans, the ones who thought the world of him and Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. The oh-so-clever Mycroft (who was shocked at the idea that his plan with Sherlock had malfunctioned). All of the sweet souls that blessed John’s lonely existence deserved every caring consideration that he’d trained into his soul. He went through the motions of being a human in mourning. He moved his things out of the flat. He walked around barefoot and left forgotten cups of tea to grow cold on random surfaces and misbuttoned his shirts. He lay on his bed and tried not to dream.

Doubts continued to linger and circle in his mind. 

The demon-touched James Moriarty must have had some powerful friends down below to be able to deliver a soul such as Sherlock’s. In the dark, in the grief-rumpled sheets of his new bed in his new flat, he twisted to lie on his back and press his lips together in stress as he considered his options. He hadn’t been Downstairs in eons, really. He’d never felt home there. Sometimes he wondered if it was a reward or a punishment to him that once the War was over he was allowed to just leave. Like an actor in a play, John had fulfilled his role in Her plan and at the end of the main performance he’d taken a curtain call and moved on to other projects. Was he a God? No, not quite. She’d never given him that much power, but he was more Her equal than anyone else. Even the false King that sat his fat red arse on the throne that was meant to be John’s couldn’t touch him. 

No, while the others writhed in their flames and sulphur baths, John had simply taken a long walk and ended up on Earth, bored and with nothing else to do while eternity stretched out ahead of him. Humanity seemed a pitiful, doomed experiment but as long as She liked them, he did what he could for them. He learned their languages, read their literature and used his experience in the War to fight with them in their battles. He healed, as his missing former brother had healed. 

Even Raphael couldn’t have healed the hole that Sherlock left in his chest, gaping and burning more than when Her Grace had left him. 

Fuck _Her_.

The motions were getting old. John needed a plan. 

He stared up at the bookstore. The gray sky threatening rain caused the horrifying memory of Sherlock’s human Fall to run through his mind. Once more, he was frozen where he stood, flashbacks of that wretched scene flaring behind his eyes. He let his eyelids slide closed, a human habit, and pressed his lips together until he had himself under control. It wouldn’t do to accidentally cause an earthquake or some other natural disaster in the middle of Soho at half past two on a Wednesday. There would be time enough for that, if he didn’t get what he wanted. (What did he want? A simple return of his human? Was he finally going to burn the way everyone thought he already had? There were too many questions, and none of them were _angelic_ or _good_.)

John pushed the door open, ignoring the closed sign. The bell above tinkled cheerfully and it made him cringe. 

“Hello?” he called. One of the perks of practically being a God was hiding his own essence while still being able to detect two supernatural entities in the building. It was a nice old store, really, if a bit dusty. Reminded him of Baker Street when they’d first moved in. Before Sherlock’s Fall, a different sort than John’s, he’d enjoyed reading. On cozy nights in the flat, turning pages while his- 

His friend-

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft, angelic tones of the bookstore’s owner. “I’m sorry, I do believe the sign indicated that we are closed.” 

John continued to wear bland humanity like a clever disguise, watching the angel step out of the back room. It wasn’t a hardship- John _liked_ being deceptively soft. Not quite as soft as the angel, surely, but he enjoyed being the gunmetal beneath the wool, so to speak. “I saw the sign, but I’m looking for someone. An Anthony J. Crowley. Would he happen to be here?” 

The angel bristled, fierceness flaring beneath customer-oriented politeness. “May I ask why you are looking to speak with him?” 

John’s lips tilted up, not in an expression of humor, but in appreciation of the protectiveness of the angel. He often found himself doing the same for Sherlock. “Rather personal, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh, dear.” The angel’s hands were a wonder to watch. They fluttered nervously, like birds, twisting fingers together in front of a curved belly, eyelids fluttering over starry night sky irises. They expressed things he didn’t mean for them to, or perhaps they expressed exactly what he intended. John could see the appeal, really, and let his lips twist further upwards. Again, it wasn’t a smile. He wouldn’t smile until he had his friend back. “Well, I- I can’t say where he is. He’s very- um- well, I’m not his keeper, certainly.” 

John pursed his lips and leaned to the side, looking behind the angel at the open door to the back room. As soon as he started to do so, the angel twisted around and pulled it shut just a little too hard. John smirked. “Or is he just not taking visitors, then?” 

The angel steeled himself. Oh, yes, John liked this one. He wasn’t like the others. John stood at a relaxed attention, hands clasped behind his back, placidly watching the angel’s softness edge towards razor sharp. “You need to leave.” 

“I’ll ask again,” John said calmly. “I need to speak to Crowley.” 

“Well, I’ll tell him you dropped by,” the angel replied, emphasizing ‘dropped’ in a delightfully sarcastic tone. “And your name? So I might tell him, _if_ I see him, who was looking for him?” 

“Watson. Doctor John Watson,” John said, still having no intention of leaving.

The door to the back room flew open and one Anthony J. Crowley filled the door frame with his lanky body. Even with his sunglasses on, his eyes blazed. “Get. Out.” 

John merely blinked, eyebrows raised. “I’d rather not. Not until we’ve spoken.” 

“I’m not _speaking_ to you,” Crowley growled. The angel, Aziraphale, was glancing back and forth between them, twisting his fingers together, watching Crowley’s visceral reaction with growing concern.

“Now, my dear, I’m sure-” 

Whatever he was going to say was left unfinished as Crowley lunged forward, his skinny bones fingers grasping, mangling the cheap wool jumper under John’s black coat, lifting and slamming the short blond doctor into a wall hard enough that several bookshelves rattled. John brought his hands up to Crowley’s wrists, gripping hard. 

“You- After all this time- Where-” Crowley spat. 

“Sentences, brother,” John murmured, staring down at Crowley with burning blue eyes, teeth gritted together as he continued to keep himself in check. Just barely. 

“I am _not_ your _brother_ ,” Crowley sneered. “You don’t get to call me that anymore. Get out.” 

“I could, if I weren’t pinned to the wall by a snake,” John pointed out. He raised his eyebrows. “Put me down.” 

“No.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmured in the background.

“Put me down, _brother_ ,” John said, letting his powers begin to hum low around him. Fragile book spines rattled together like Crowley’s plants. The air became hotter and heavy with the taste of ash and brimstone. Paint began to peel and crackle. “Or I’ll make you.” 

Grief had taken a toll on John’s self-control.

“Now, see here,” Aziraphale protested, coming closer to them, “I’m not sure what’s going on, but there’s no need for threats! He- He’s done nothing wrong.” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” John said, hands gripping Crowley tight. “Put me down.” 

“No.” 

“Crowley, please-” 

“Yes, _Crowley_ ,” John said, a mean teasing tone in his voice. “Listen to your angel.” 

The hell-haired demon turned, whipping John around and giving him a shove, causing him to stumble. The doctor righted himself, brushed the wrinkles from his jumper and turned to face Crowley again. 

And then introduced his fist to the demon’s chin. Hard.

Sadly, the angel took offence at that and John found himself instantly wrapped from behind in surprisingly strong arms. “I asked _nicely_ that the two of you not do that in the shop.” 

Crowley glared up at John from the floor, hissing as he touched his jaw. “Bassstard. You’re not wanted here. I don’t work for you anymore.” 

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked, his grip loosening a little. “Work for-?” 

John’s power returned to it’s threatening hum. He brought a hand up to hover over Aziraphale’s arms, leveling Crowley with a meaningful stare. “Tell him to back off, Crowley. I won’t hurt him if he just let’s go.” Crowley’s mouth was set in a harsh red line across his face. John smirked. “Are you wearing lipstick?” 

“Shut it,” Crowley said, and he nodded to Aziraphale to let go of John. “I don’t want to talk to you.” 

“You’re the only one I have to turn to. We were brothers once,” John told him. The panic and despair that simmered just under his surface was tipping over, a cup too full. He reached out to help the demon to his feet, attempting a smile. It still wasn’t right. “Please?” 

“You didn’t seem to think I was your brother when you _tormented_ me and pitched me into a pit of sssulfur,” Crowley hissed, ignoring the hand that John offered.

“If that were the case, you should stay kneeling, then. I’m your king, after all,” John replied dryly. He raised his eyebrows. “Come on, I’m very nearly begging here.” Crowley stood, although he didn’t take John’s hand, leaving the doctor to have to drop it awkwardly. 

“What do you want?” Crowley ground out. He walked around John, placing himself between the angel and Watson. “Why are you here? Why are you _pretending_ to be human for that detective? Where have you _been_ since the Fall?” 

“I’m- I’m sorry, I seem to be missing something. Who is this?” Aziraphale asked, gripping the back of Crowley’s jacket, blue eyes blinking up. Crowley seemed torn between something that looked like love and melting and annoyance. John cleared his throat.

“The Morning Star, at your service,” John said, sarcasm coloring his tone. Crowley hissed again. “Lucifer. Satan. Prince of Darkness, although not the current reigning one.” 

“Yeah, about that,” Crowley snapped.

“I’ve always told you, you need to read the entire document. If you’d finished the Plan when I showed it to you, you would have seen that my job was finished shortly after the War. We both could have skipped town, as it were,” John said. Aziraphale still didn’t look like he believed any of it. John raised his eyebrows. “You never told him. All this time?” 

“Shut up!” 

At this point, the little white-haired angel was inching his body around Crowley’s to try and protect him. It was an interesting little comedy to watch, the two of them attempting to out-protect one another. His money was on the angel. “Told me what?” 

“Nothing, angel!” Crowley said. He glared at John. “Get out.” 

“Yes, quite. He no longer works for you, and we are free agents. I must insist you leave,” Aziraphale agreed. 

“He’s- Just- Please listen to me,” John said, trying to keep the begging, the pleading, out of his voice. “He wasn’t supposed to die. It was some trick, and Mephistopheles was there- I need you. Please, Crowley. I don’t have anyone else I can ask.” Crowley didn’t answer. “I could try to do it alone, but you’ve been there recently. I haven’t been there since, well, you know. It would save me time and possibly an innocent soul,” John said. He was begging now, really, but for Sherlock he would humble himself before Her if needed. “Mephistopheles shouldn’t have been there. And it wouldn’t hurt to have the archangel of healing with me.” 

Well, at least that earned him another hiss, if not words.

“Archangel of healing? Wouldn’t that be Raphael? No one has heard from Raphael since the Fall,” Aziraphale was saying. Crowley grimaced. 

“I can’t believe you never told him,” John mused, trying to sound friendly. 

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” Crowley said, cringing. “That’s not who I am anymore.” 

Predictably, Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, my _dear_.” 

“It doesn’t matter!” Crowley insisted. He didn’t turn his back on John, that would have been stupid, but he did glance over at his angel. “That angel died, Aziraphale. There’s nothing of him left.” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” John told him. “I might not be the acting Lord of all Doom but I can say that I’ve kept tabs on you. I’ve followed your mischievous acts. There’s a great deal of goodness that’s been done as well.” 

Aziraphale almost beamed at that idea until he remembered who was saying it. He cleared his throat nervously. “Still, my dear. An _archangel_. I can’t believe you never told me.” 

“Angel, the Morning Star himself is in your bloody bookshop. There’s more pressing things than who I was before I took a tumble out of the clouds,” Crowley snapped. His face returned to John, presumably glaring. “I’m not helping you.” 

“Look, Sherlock wasn’t meant to die, and he certainly wasn’t damned. Mephistopheles only comes for pre-determined-damned souls. I would have known, Crowley. Something went wrong. Please, he’s not meant to be down there,” John said. He tried to make his eyes as pleading as possible. “You know how it feels. I know you do. I might not have shown up for the Apocalypse, but I do recall a certain book store burned to ash.” 

Crowley winced. 

“I must say, I don’t know how comfortable I am with us going into Hell for a complete stranger,” Aziraphale protested. “They aren’t exactly fond of us. But- But if it saves an innocent soul?” 

Crowley looked over at the angel again, who was batting big blue eyes up at him, eyebrows slightly raised. The demon growled. “ _Fine._ But after that I’m not talking to him anymore.” 

“That sounds reasonable,” Aziraphale agreed. He watched Crowley storm back into the back room before giving a small, nervous sort of smile to John. “I didn’t recognize you, at first, but the children showed me your blog. I find it vastly entertaining.” 

“I appreciate it. Hopefully there will be more of it soon,” John said, his voice breaking even as he kept his face calm and his lips tight. There’d be time to break down later. For now, there was a battle to win.

***

John was _furious_. So much so he almost glowed with it.

“Just once, Sherlock, you need to let me actually rescue you! I’m not incompetant, as you pretend I am!” John shouted, marching Sherlock through the door of Baker Street. The other two lingered on the landing, letting the ex-archangel-turned-army-doctor lecture his friend. “I was a soldier! Several times! Great _Sherlock Holmes_ with his big bloody brain-” 

“Really, John, you should’ve been quicker,” Sherlock drawled, pacing around the flat. Long white fingers reached out to touch things, smearing over the mantle, picking up books, dragging over bullet holes in the walls. He seemed to be searching for something, or checking to see if anything was missing. “Tea?” 

“I threw them out,” John snapped, guessing what the man was prowling for. “From here on in, I’m not risking you anymore. Your health, Sherlock. No more cigarettes! And I’m not making you tea!” 

“Oh, this is going to be _fun_ ,” Sherlock sneered back. “If you think-”

“Yes, I do think!” 

“Then you should have left me where you found me. I was handling it-”

“You were being an idiot!”

“I’m not one of your girlfriends to save-”

On the landing, Aziraphale hovered nervously, those soft fat fingers back to twisting into pretzel shapes of distress. “Is it quite safe to leave them together?” 

‘Yeha, I think they’ll be fine. Or not, I don’t fucking care. Let’s go,” Crowley said. He started down the stairs but paused when he realized that Aziraphale wasn’t following him. He turned back, looking up at the snow-colored angel. He raised his brows expectantly. “Aziraphale?” 

“It’s just, well. We did do them a _favor_ and I was just hoping, well. He seems so ordinary, you see, I was just thinking perhaps-” Aziraphale motioned in towards the arguing couple. Crowley scoffed, but he came back up the stairs and knocked on the door. 

“Oi. Lovebirds. We need payment for services rendered,” Crowley said, interrupting the bickering. Sherlock had perched himself on his arm chair, feet on the seat and rear-end on the back. John was standing in the middle of the room, fists clenched at his side. 

John glared at Crowley. “I don’t think you get paid when we didn’t actually do any rescuing because _someone_ ,” an angry glance back at Sherlock, “was already wriggling himself out Hell, but fine. What can I do for you?” 

Crowley, without looking, reached back and tugged Aziraphale closer and further into the flat. “He wants to see your-” Sardonic hands are flapped in John’s direction. “You know, the Star and all.” 

“You can make him a star of his own. Surely you haven’t lost that much,” John said, frowning and crossing his arms over his chest. He was the portrait of an angry father. So unassuming, so short, so boring. 

“It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale started, trying to gently wrench his arm out of Crowley’s grasp, but the demon held firm.

“But nothing that I ever hung shone as brightly as the Morning Star,” Crowley replied, his voice absolutely _dripping_ with scornful delight. He watched John shift minutely, just from one foot to the other, and his glee tripled. “Oh, now you’re _uncomfortable_. Ever so sorry to-”

“Shut up!” It was John’s turn to hiss. He wasn’t blushing, he was not blushing! John swallowed. He could practically feel Sherlock’s curiosity vibrating in the air. “Fine. Just this once.” 

John met Aziraphale’s curious eyes, trying to soften his expression out of respect for the angel. “It’s not what it used to be. You know that, yeah?” 

“Oh, I’m sure whatever you have will be perfectly lovely,” Aziraphale assured him. John’s lips pulled into a tight smile. And then he let himself Remember.

He remembered his Mother’s voice in his mind and the feeling of being her favorite child, her confidante. He remembered the love of the other angels, how they had almost radiated envy when they saw him. Mostly, he let himself linger on memories of Sherlock. The secret laughs saved for when only John was watching, the little jokes he made to make John smile. The times they held each other through panic attacks or the few times when John had been allowed to rescue Sherlock. He thought about tea and books and severed body parts in the fridge, which he hated, but also loved because it was Sherlock. And he thought of how beautiful, how lovely, how absolutely reckless Sherlock had looked literally crawling his way out of Hell just to be with John again. 

And John beamed brighter than any beacon.

Nothing changed about his unassuming appearance. That had always been the same. Rather, it was the passion and pure love that caused him to glow brighter than the sun. 

Sherlock’s hand traced the curve of John’s jawline. John’s eyes opened. He hadn’t heard the man approach and the other two were somehow gone. The living room of Baker Street was blindingly, brilliantly bright and Sherlock, alive and well, was smiling down at him.

“Don’t make some stupid joke about conducting light,” John whispered. Sherlock’s grin only grew wider. 

“Or about the sun going ‘round the Earth?” Sherlock murmured. John grinned back at him, tongue darting out to wet his lips. 

“Or that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please consider reading some of my other works.
> 
> Find me on [ Tumblr ](https://madrabbitsociety.tumblr.com)  
> or on my [ My Blog ](https://www.madrabbitsociety.com/p/insta-links.html)


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